A Cool, Cool, Considerate Man
by TrivialQueen
Summary: To the congress he is cool, calm, and collected, only to his wife does he let his true feelings be known. A collection of moments between John Dickinson and his wife.
1. Worry

A Cool, Cool, Considerate Man

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Disclaimer: I am an aspiring historian of the American Revolution and an avid fan of musical theater, neither of these facts; however, give me ownership of the musical _1776_ or any of the characters, situations, or music in it.

Summary: To the congress he is cool, calm, and collected, only to his wife does he let his true feelings be known. A collection of moments between John Dickinson and his wife.

_Note: a few things, one John Dickinson married Mary 'Polly' Norris in July of 1770, she was thirty he was thirty eight, they had five children, although only two survived to adulthood. I also do not own the quote about beliefs and hobbies - that is by one of my favorite modern people Jon Stewart, who like Thomas Jefferson, graduated from the College of William and Mary. As a side, random fact, I will be attending graduate school in the fall beginning my Masters (I'll eventually get my PhD… I hope) my research interests revolve around loyalists, loyalism, conservatism in the American revolution and the role of women. So while my favorite founding father is John Adams I have a particular intellectual affinity for John Dickinson and particularly for depictions of John Dickinson._

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Worry

Sally was settled into bed with minimal fuss, the wee lamb. Little John was another matter entirely. Even though there was nothing he could do and he really needed to get some work done he still felt bad. Guilty. He was their father damnit, yet he never had time to help his wife with their children. He never had time to see his children – awake anyway. A kiss at bedtime and that was it. His time with Polly did not fare better. The reading and the writing, the writing and the reading, his time at home was just time in his office punctuated by fitful attempts at sleep. In some ways he envied the other delegates, far from home. They were truly separated from their families, the longing must be maddening for them, and John knows that everyone is jealous of him in this one respect. He lives here. He is home. He sleeps beside his wife each night. Ned Rutledge once commented on such a privilege as they exited Congress together one muggy evening, John on his way to _Fairhall_, Ned to the boarding house he had made his northern home.

"I often have wondered how you remain so cool and collected during session when some in our number erupt at every opportunity." He drawled, one side of his mouth turning up in a smirk. "But then I recall that while I return to my room to sleep alone you return to your home and your _wife_ each night."

Yet what should be his paradise is his hell. At least if he was away he would be gone, but no he is home and yet not really there. He sees and hears all that he is missing but cannot join in.

Work.

There is work to be done. Angrily he crumpled up the paper he had been writing, the last line was blotted and he noticed at least three simple words he had misspelled. It would never do. He lobbed the hateful thing into the hearth before burying his face in his hands.

War. If he failed the country, his home, everything would be consumed and destroyed and who would know when the fighting would stop – if it would stop. Even if they threw off the yoke of England and Parliament's tyranny, they had no government. They had no plan for a government. They had a room full of lawyers and politicians day in and day out who could not agree if they wanted to open a window. After they fought England what would stop them from fighting one another? What would stop another imperial power from stepping in and enslaving them? The terrifying possibilities kept him awake at night.

He'd not noticed Polly enter his office until he felt his wig be lifted from his head and the cool of her hands running through his short cropped hair sooth him. She ran her hand through his hair a few times before working her fingers lower, massaging his neck and shoulders through his linen shirt.

"If these knots you call shoulders become any tighter they could secure a merchant vessel." Polly commented, her tone not as light as her words. "You need to take better care of yourself, John, I am worried. Will you come to bed before midnight tonight?" he felt his shoulders loosen under his wife's skillful hands. She was an angel and her touch heaven.

"There is much left to be done Polly. I-I am sorry." His shoulders began to tighten again as each regret on his long list bubbled toward the surface. He felt like crying. Oh if Ned Rutledge could see him now. Or Mr. Adams. Or any of the men at Congress. He was anything but a cool, cool confident man. Polly gripped his shoulders tightly.

"Don't you dare apologize to me. Not for crying. Never for crying. You are trying to save the world – my world – our world." A tear did fall hat her words and he buried his face deeper into his hands. All of his walls crumbled to the ground as his pretenses strained and snapped under the pressure.

"Hardly. All I am doing is neglecting our children and you." There was a little space between himself and the desk but somehow she fit herself into his lap, taking his face in her hands. Her eyes were as green as pine and her gaze was as sharp as its needles. She stared into his face, open and honest.

"Our children are three and one, John. They do not notice how long you are gone, they only care when you come home and they will certainly not remember any of this when they get older. They do know that Daddy loves them however. And they know that because you love them _so much_ you are trying to save them from a _civil war_. Give yourself some credit Love." She smiled and caressed his cheeks with her thumbs, wiping away his frustration and the few tears that had worked their way past his defenses.

"Civil war looms more and more with each passing day. Adams is unyielding in his demands and unrelenting in voicing them. Independency is the popular opinion; the question now is how to articulate it." All of New England was for the war as was half of Pennsylvania. The south was willing provided their interests were maintained and 'Independence' was only extended to the whites of their states and not the vast number of African slaves on their farms. He could see the sympathy in his bride's eyes, the love and the support. And when she kissed him he could taste salvation. He clung to her, his arms wrapping around her soft, slender waist, his lips parting hers so they might seal together better. In his heart he thanked God for the love of this woman, she was so much more than he deserved. Slowly, eventually, she pulled away from his lips. Resting her forehead on his she found her tongue again.

"If they are so excited to fight give them one. You must follow your conscious, John. If you do not hold to your beliefs then they are not really beliefs, they are hobbies." She kissed his forehead before wrapping him in her embrace and holding him close, his chin resting atop her chestnut hair.

"I love you John Dickinson and I trust you. You will do what you believe is right. Now, do I need to go down to the congress tomorrow and knock skulls together?" John began to laugh. Polly joined in. He could just see his darling slip of a wife, barely over five feet tall striding into congress and taking Mister Adams or Mr. Hopkins by the ear and sharing a rather large piece of her mind with them.

"Would you like to bring the children into bed tonight for a cuddle?" Normally Polly was firm that the children needed to sleep in their own beds and not be allowed to trespass in with their parents. Her willingness to break her own rule for his piece of mind brought the first true smile to his lips in days. Nonetheless he shook his head and instead leaned in for another kiss. A breath away from her lips he replied,

"Another time perhaps, a _cuddle_ from their mother, on the other hand, is a different matter." She giggled happily and buried her fingers in his short hair as he kissed her.


	2. Murmur

A Cool, Cool, Considerate Man

* * *

Disclaimer: I am an aspiring historian of the American Revolution and an avid fan of musical theater, neither of these facts; however, give me ownership of the musical _1776_ or any of the characters, situations, or music in it.

Summary: To the congress he is cool, calm, and collected, only to his wife does he let his true feelings be known. A collection of moments between John Dickinson and his wife.

* * *

Murmur

John talks in his sleep. Well, he mutters really, it is not the intelligent, witty conversation she married but rather broken, half phrases. He had not slept peacefully through the night since the Proclamation of Rebellion and rejection of the Olive Branch Petition. He fidgets in his sleep as he mumbles, she can feel the tremors in his muscles as he wraps himself further around her.

They had always slept close together. For being a man her sister once described as 'cool' John put out a tremendous amount of body heat. When she accepted him into her bed she stopped having to bring a hot brick. It used to be she that curled into he, drawn to his warmth and the comfort of her cheek on his broad chest. Now he curled around her, his chest to her back like spoons in a drawer, an arm and a leg thrown over hers. He covered her body with his like he would shield her from all harm. It was sweet if it didn't make her feel as though she was being suffocated. She would pull away and he would whimper and reach for her, his slumber even less peaceful.

He is worried there will be war. He worries that we are already at war. He worries that he cannot protect his home and his family and that this war which approaches steadily and ominously like a thunder head will destroy everything. He tries to do it all, he tries to protect what he can. He worries it won't be enough. He cannot sleep for the worry. Yet in the morning he washes his face and slips a mask on. He is tired and terrified but no one in Congress sees how drained he is. Mr. Dickinson, cool, considerate man, unflappable, unruffled. Screaming inside. She sees it, even when it is not being murmured in her ear in the dark. She can feel it. He needs her and for him she will be strong. She will let him pin her into the mattress and squeeze her like she is a ragdoll in a young child's bed. If it will comfort him. If will assuage his worry she will gladly do it.


	3. First Meeting

A Cool, Cool, Considerate Man

* * *

Disclaimer: I am an aspiring historian of the American Revolution and an avid fan of musical theater, neither of these facts; however, give me ownership of the musical 1776 or any of the characters, situations, or music in it.

Summary: To the congress he is cool, calm, and collected, only to his wife does he let his true feelings be known. A collection of moments between John Dickinson and his wife.

_Author's Note: A few words on the use of italics, underline, and bold in this chapter. So, I took three years of Spanish and two years of Latin and not a lick of French. I don't speak French – unless I'm talking about Saturday night down at the Twist and Shout (Mary Chapin Carpenter Song) or propositioning someone (Lady Marmalade). But the ideal education for boys and girls in the 18__th__ century involved learning languages and French was a fairly popular one to learn, especially for young women. Mrs. John Dickinson (also known as Mary Norris or as Polly) was an exceptionally well educated woman, she would know French. Anyway, instead of butchering a lovely language that I do not speak I have italicized any text that while written in English here in my head should be said in French. Basically italics = French. To make sure there is no confusion for the rest of this story the titles of books, essays, etc. is _underlined. _And any text that is handwritten for the sake of the story will be in _**bold**. _If something is both handwritten and in French it will be in __**both italics and bold**__._

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First Meeting

John Dickinson ambled leisurely through the shelves of his favorite bookseller. He knew he wanted Blackstone's forth volume of Commentaries but he had a little time on his hands and used it to peruse the other titles around him. Books were his vice the way drink and cards were for other men. Although he firmly believed books would not destroy his soul, only his pocketbook. Of Public Wrong tucked under his arm John wandered, avoiding the shelves containing novels as best he could, the feminine giggles rising from the shelves driving him away.

As an unmarried man of property, he was the subject of gossip and marriage minded matrons from Philadelphia to Wilmington. It was the popular understanding he must be in want of a wife since he was still a reasonably young man with a respected family name and fortune. What John Dickinson was really in want of was intelligent conversation. Since returning from his legal studies in London thirteen years ago, he had tried to find a suitable mate and wife. Unfortunately, no woman who threw herself or was thrown at him by a relative met what he thought to be rather low standards. Not a single one of them could hold a conversation of worth. Their wit was too juvenile, or too acidic, or absent all together. Moreover, all of them seemed more interested in his income than his ideas. So after a few years of being Mr. seven thousand a year instead of Mr. Dickinson when he walked into a room John gave up. He had a nice home in the city and a very effective housekeeper who ran things as well as his mother had, he really did not need a wife (baser desires aside and those were horrible reasons to enter into a marriage).

He found himself in the back corner of the shop, surrounded in a private world by shelves of politics and satire. A paradise if John ever saw one, although not a private one. A few paces from him a woman stood studying the shelves intensely, chewing on her fair thumb, unaware that she was not alone. Staring was far from gentlemanly but John could not help himself. She seemed so out of place amongst the dark shelves and tomes of dry political essays. Her rose-colored dress contrasted with the dark leather around her. The color of her gown also brought out the highs and lows in her chestnut hair, braided back from her face and into a low complicated, effeminate bun. Her hair was uncovered, the low crowned hat hanging loosely from her right hand as she gazed up at the shelves.

She must have found a title she wanted for his stupor was broken by her movement. She stepped forward and raised her hand from her lips. She was so small, and her fingertips did not reach the shelf she wanted. He took a step forward to help but caught himself. He did not need to admit he was watching her. Instead, he quickly turned to the nearest bookshelf and breathed a sigh of relief to find a collection of science books. Casually he picked up Systema Naturae and partially hid himself in its pages, watching the woman from the corner of his eye. She tried a second time to reach the book but once again came up short. Jumping did nothing save make him bite back a laugh. She looked about and John more fully hid himself in Linnaeus' work, trying his hardest to appear casual.

After a few beats he chanced a look up. The Young woman looked away quickly and he dropped his eyes to the arbitrary page before him. After a few beats he chanced a look up, again the woman looked away quickly, teeth worrying her lower lip. He turned the page. The third time he looked up she did not look away, instead he watched her square her shoulders and meet his gaze. Her eyes were as green as summer leaves. He felt his breath catch a little. He had not seen anything so green outside of an orchard. They were big and round now. He was vaguely reminded of a rabbit he had watched flee his father's hounds as a boy. Her lips trembled slightly.

"Excuse me?" Her voice trembled in the same way her mouth had. She spoke softly and with uncertainty. I'm so sorry but could you please help me for a moment?" She took a deep breath and John shut his book. Her chest strained against her décolletage as she took a second calming breath.

"I seem unable to reach Priestley's Essay on Government. You perhaps will have better luck." She gestured to the high shelf, "Could you please?"

"Of course madam." He said drawing himself up to his full height and straightened his vest. As he crossed to her he thought he heard her murmur _Mademoiselle if you please, I am only twenty-eight._ He looked at her for a moment, watching a blush creep from her chest, up her neck, and into her cheeks. He obviously was not meant to hear or perhaps understand her French.

"_Which work would you like mademoiselle?"_

"Essay on the First Principles of Government_, if you please."_ He looked at her again; she was looking at her hands folded primly in front of her. After a beat she looked up through her lashes at him. Her gaze then darted to the book, her cheeks glowing pink once again. He took a deep breath and turned toward the shelf. His hand was slightly unsteady as he reached for the volume. Those eyes were bright and did the strangest things to his insides. He pulled the work down and turned back to her. Those green eyes had been watched his back with a light in them like the sun through a canopy of leaves. She dropped their gaze the moment she was caught to his hands and the book.

"_Your book, Mademoiselle."_

"_Merci beaucoup Monsieur."_ She said accepting the book from him and running her fingers over the embossing.

"_Is your husband interested in politics?" _he asked dumbly, his French was not as practiced as his Latin, but he had successfully conversed in it to this point. It rolled from his lips smoothly and clearly.

"_No, I have no husband."_ She replied, still in French, and he realized her use of the word "Mademoiselle" was not just a comment on her age but also on her marital status.

By her accent he knew her to be colonially born and educated but she seemed just as comfortable to speak in French as she was to speak in English. If he could call her comfortable at all. She blushed brighter still and her voice was very quiet. Her eyes remained focused on her book or occasionally a spot beyond his right shoulder.

"_I am interested in politics."_

"_Vous?"_

"_Oui, moi."_ She said meeting his eye deliberately for only the second time the entire conversation. _"Thank you again for retrieving this for me, Mister…?"_

"Dickinson, John Dickinson _at your service Miss…?"_

"Mary Norris." She curtsied and returned to her study of places other than him.

"_Well, Miss Norris is there any other task my height may be able to perform for you?"_ he caught her eye and smiled. He could see her breasts push against the neckline of her dress again as she inhaled sharply. Those large eyes were brighter, glowing in the dim of the shop, as were the tips of her ears as her blush had spread farther. She had to tip her head back to look up into his face and he could see the cords and hollows of her neck clearly in the movement. He had to remind himself not to stare.

"_I cannot think of any at this moment, but thank you for the offer, it was most kind."_ Her gaze had returned to her hands.

"_I hope you enjoy the essay, I would be interested to know your opinion of it. I read it last month."_ She looked up at him once again, lifting her chin slightly, a bit more firmness in her resolve to speak to him.

"Perhaps, Mister Dickinson, you will." She said in English this time, a small smile gracing her small bow mouth. "Now, pray excuse me, I best return home and begin reading." She curtsied again. "Thank you and good day."

"Good day, Miss Norris." He bid her with a bow and watched as she gracefully walked away.

A few days later a letter arrived at his practice addressed in a neat, looping hand to

**Monsieur John Dickinson, Esquire**

The handwriting was obviously female but he did not recognize it as one of his half-sisters or sister-in-law's pens. The letter was sealed with a deep green wax and a single letter M pressed into the center. Curious John softened the seal and pulled it from the paper.

_**Monsieur**_** Dickinson,** the letter began.

_**Please forgive my forwardness in writing to you but I have recently finished Mr. Priestley's essay, the one you were so kind as to retrieve for me. You had expressed an interest in my opinion, I am writing to give it to you. If you are no longer interested in my thoughts, please feel free to dispose of this missive and fear not I will not trouble you again. If, however, the opinions of a woman are still of interest to you then please read further and please, if not inconvenient share with me your views on the work.**_

The letter continued in the same looping hand and in French, save when she quoted the text directly and when at the end she neatly wrote her address should he wish to reply. **Miss Mary Norris Fairhall Philadelphia**. If the depth of her opinion, her analytical reasoning, and ability to articulate herself was not enough to make John's eyes fly wide in surprise her address was.

Fairhall. Fairhall near Germantown was one of the most impressive buildings in the city, and one of the most expensive. He had heard a bit about the property through the various gossips and lawyers. Isaac Norris' two surviving children had inherited the property – daughters. Miss Mary Norris was the mistress of Fairhall. This further explained their encounter – her fine breeding, lovely French, and her half secret comment on being only twenty eight and unmarried. The Logans, Miss Norris' mother's family, prominent Quakers, were in open secrecy trying to take the property from their niece and pass it to male and more traditional relative. Without hesitation John pulled out a fresh parchment piece and began his reply,

_**Mlle. Norris**_…


	4. A Modest Proposal

A Cool, Cool, Considerate Man

* * *

Disclaimer: I am an aspiring historian of the American Revolution and an avid fan of musical theater, neither of these facts; however, give me ownership of the musical 1776 or any of the characters, situations, or music in it.

Summary: To the congress he is cool, calm, and collected, only to his wife does he let his true feelings be known. A collection of moments between John Dickinson and his wife.

_Author's Note: Again italics = French. _Underlined _= Title of a book, essay, etc._ **Bold** _= handwriting._

* * *

A Modest Proposal

"It is probably because I find him very attractive but I feel comfortable speaking with him and his letters have made me even more comfortable." Mary Norris babbled into her mirror as Anna twisted and pinned her hair into a new, elaborate, and hopefully comely hairstyle. Anna Smith was a kindly woman in her early fifties who had been at Fairhall for as long as Polly could remember. She had been her mother's maid prior to her death. Mary had made her housekeeper after she inherited the house but at times like this she needed a mother and so Anna stepped in. She helped her dress and did her hair and above all listened quietly as Polly spoke.

"Don't question it if he makes you feel comfortable. Rejoice in the conversation." Anna said through hairpins between her teeth. She and John (as he was called in her head) had been exchanging letters for many months now - discussing books mostly, but also matters of politics, religion, law, economy, and philosophy. They had met in person a few times, hardly at all compared to the frequency of their letters. These meetings had occurred mostly at the bookshop, though they had also taken to strolling through the city green, or going for rides around town. She had invited him to dine with her and her sister at Fairhall once. It felt too much like courting, and while she was secretly thrilled at the idea, she did not want to push her intellectual friendship with the man. Also Sarah had declared after he had left that she thought him to be a bit too cool for her tastes and groused extensively at the amount of French they used throughout the meal, she claimed it was some secret code they had devised to exclude her from their fun. Sarah was Mary's near perfect opposite, she never had seen the point in learning languages, and she absolutely hated being excluded from a conversation or attention.

Polly did not care that her sister thought John was cool, most people assumed the same thing about her. She knew that gossips considered her the haughty mistress of Fairhall who spent too much time reading and isolating herself from society. Her reluctance to speak with people, especially strangers, was a mark of insufferable pride. She knew that she was not particularly proud, but rather exceptionally shy but others did not see it. She knew this about herself and she felt confident that John's 'coolness' was a similar stigma. She always found him charming, witty, and very warm. She felt that she could *talk* to him and that he would listen. Until she was six the majority of people including some of her family thought she was dumb because she was too afraid to speak. Even as an adult her heart raced in the presence of strangers and her palms sweated, she would lose her ability to take a full breath and her world would spin. Mary hated speaking with people in person. She did like letters and she felt that she could handle letters well. People were another matter. Yet she was not afraid to speak with him.

"There." Anna announced, stepping back to admire her work. "You look lovely, child. Your mother would be so proud, bless her soul." Mary turned on her stool to meet Anna's brown eyes in life and not the glass.

"Truly?"

"Yes truly! My dear you have grown into a beautiful woman, taken to running the estate like a duck to water, and are about to go for an afternoon with a man who makes you positively glow. Yes, she would be proud and so very happy. She desperately wanted you to be happy, little one, and for you to find someone who would support you and comfort you and that you would come out of that shell for."

Prompt as always a fine carriage pulled up before Fairhall at four on the dot. From her upstairs window Polly watched as he alighted from his open hack he was wearing a suit of hunter green and looked particularly smart. She chided herself for being pleased that she had chosen a plum colored gown. The compliment of her wardrobe with his was frivolous but delighted her nonetheless. Choosing a shawl and adjusting her hat Polly very calmly descended the stairs as Bates, her butler, announced,

"Mr. Dickinson."

He smiled at her and Polly caught herself discreetly as she tripped. Every time she had seen his smile she'd lost herself for a moment - forgotten how to breathe, how to speak, how to walk. She tried her best to return his smile but felt she only succeeded in blushing scarlet.

"_Mister Dickinson, how lovely to see you again."_ Sarah had been right in some respects, speaking and corresponding in French had become one of their little jokes, though why they found it so amusing escaped them both.

"_Nothing could be as lovely as you Mademoiselle."_ He replied and Polly felt very, very warm.

"_You flatter me, sir, and I thank you for it."_

"_Nonsense, I speak the truth always. I am a lawyer after all."_ He replied. His dry sense of humor was one of the things she had come to adore most about him. Offering her his arm, she took it and met his gaze for the first time that afternoon. His blue eyes were fairly glowing. She only felt warmer.

"_I have something for you."_ John began, pulling a slim package from his coat pocket as they rolled along one of the main boulevards of town.

"_Monsieur! You should not have! I cannot accept when I have nothing to give you in return."_ He waved off her protest.

"_Your presence is gift enough. Please, open it and I may explain further."_ He took her hands and pressed the package into them. The look in his eyes as he met her gaze obliterated any argument she had in mind. Nodding she took the gift, the plain brown paper peeled away to reveal a slender book. Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania the title read. Confused she looked at him again, the letters had been published individually over the course of a year. The volume she held appeared to have all twelve.

"_Open it."_ He said watching her intensely. She did as he bid her, opening to the first few pages. The first few hand written pages – his hand written pages. Before her the Farmer's arguments were laid out in his hand and edited as well – in his hand.

"_You"_ she began after studying the pages. _"You are the Farmer?"_ the letters had been published anonymously and had been attributed to nearly every Pennsylvanian male who could write in English. He simply smiled at her.

"_No wonder you were so interested in my opinion and so vague with your own!"_ She exclaimed, playfully swatting his knee. _"You could have told me!"_ He laughed.

"_I wanted your honest opinion and not empty pleasantries, and you gave them to me."_

"_I should have been meaner."_ She huffed, not really put out. Leaning forward in his seat, he caught her hand in a gentle but firm grip. Mary looked from their hands to his face. He was serious; she'd so rarely seen him truly serious. His eyes were intense as they looked into hers, his gaze made her breath catch and her stomach erupt into butterflies.

"Mary," She said quietly, "Please, I value your honest opinions; I value them a great deal." He said in English.

"And you have had them, you have always had them." She replied, also in English and feeling bold since he had used her Christian name added, "John you shall continue to have them as long as you ask." The expression on his handsome face made her shiver.

"You're shivering." He said, his hand still holding hers across the carriage. The early spring evening was chilly but she would not cut this ride short for less than a hard freeze.

"I am comfortable, truly." She said, squeezing his hand, she rather enjoyed holding it.

"Nonsense, you aren't wearing a jacket and I have my doubts about the warmth of your shawl."

"Even if I was chilled, what would you propose as a solution?" She countered; little debates made their letters the highlight of her day. They would begin seriously then dissolve into sillier and sillier arguments and reasons. John looked about cautiously, no one could really see into their carriage even without a roof, moreover no one on the street seemed to care at all about the hack rolling by.

"I have an unorthodox solution if you will permit me." He began, releasing her hand. She felt colder at the loss of contact. "I have it on good authority that I give off a tremendous amount of body heat, more than enough to keep myself warm. If you will allow it I am willing to share, though this will require that I sit beside you." Playfully she wrinkled her nose and hoped to God it masked the multitude of emotions she was feeling at the prospect of sitting beside him – sitting close beside him.

"Before I answer I must ask, who has been commenting on your body heat?" She teased, their usual French forgotten.

"I had ten other siblings growing up, a bed or two has been shared in that time."

"Goodness gracious!" She exclaimed, "You told me you had a large family but I did not imagine ten siblings." She slid over on the carriage bench, making room for him. She might combust but she would die happy. "Ten siblings cannot be wrong; I shall take up your offer Mister Dickinson." He could come and sit beside her or just smile at her, either way she felt her temperature soar. He shifted and sat beside her, one long arm stretched across the back of the seat. Hesitantly she scooted closer to him, being near him made a blush bloom across her cheeks and neck. He could have been a block of ice and she still would have melted.

They were silent for a while, nearly touching but not quite. Mary intently studied the book in her hands, amazed it had not caught on fire from the intense heat she was feeling within her skin.

"You said this was a gift" she began, a thought having occurred to her in their companionable silence. He hummed in acknowledgement. "But these appear to be your original drafts." He agreed again. She looked up from the pages to look at him. "Should you not keep them? Why give them to me? There must have been another way to tell me you wrote the essays if that was your objective." John looked down at her, studying her face for a moment. Those eyes lingering on her face – on her eyes… on her lips, they made Mary feel as if she had been jolted with Dr. Franklin's electric rod. She felt as if that lighting was crackling between them.

"As a lawyer I learned not to ask questioned unless I already know the answer and I had intended to do just that but here and now I find it difficult to wait further and you must forgive me for deviating from such a course." He began. Polly could not think so instead she touched his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers. "I value your opinion a great deal Miss Norris. I enjoy hearing your thoughts on life, politics, culture, religion, and in general. I truly wish to hear and discuss your thoughts on all things and especially on the things I write. Especially since I feel as though I will be writing more of these pamphlets in the future. I would very much like for you to be with me as I do it and to help me with all my first drafts." Mary though she might faint.

She was not sure when exactly she had fallen in love with John Dickinson but she had and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It had happened rather like she had fallen asleep – slowly at first then all at once. As she sat in his carriage, his words in her hands she knew. She loved him and if she was not mistaken he seemed to be admitting something similar.

"Are you asking for me to be your editor or your wife?" He burst out laughing, loud and long until he shook with it and she joined in. He wrapped the arm that had been resting along the back of the seat around her shoulders and pulled her closer into his side. He really was warm – and so was she.

"Forgive me Mary for not being clearer. I am asking for both although I would like to have you as my wife first and foremost."

"Really?" She squeaked in spite of herself.

"Yes, really. Now, may I have my answer please?" Mary felt herself beam and never had her voice been stronger than when she said,

"Yes."


End file.
